Living Alone eBook

the beginning, when her soul was being soaked in virtue,
the heel of it was fortunately left dry. She
had a husband, but no apparent tragedy in her life.
These two women were obviously not native to their
surroundings. Their eyelashes brought Bond Street—­or
at least Kensington—­to mind; their shoes
were mudless; their gloves had not been bought in
the sales. Of the sixth woman the less said the
better.

All six women were there because their country was
at war, and because they felt it to be their duty
to assist it to remain at war for the present.
They were the nucleus of a committee on War Savings,
and they were waiting for their Chairman, who was
the Mayor of the borough. He was also a grocer.

Five of the members were discussing methods of persuading
poor people to save money. The sixth was making
spots on the table with a pen.

They were interrupted, not by the expected Mayor,
but by a young woman, who came violently in by the
street door, rushed into the middle of the room, and
got under the table. The members, in surprise,
pushed back their chairs and made ladylike noises
of protest and inquiry.

“They’re after me,” panted the person
under the table.

All seven listened to thumping silence for several
seconds, and then, as no pursuing outcry declared
itself, the Stranger arose, without grace, from her
hiding-place.

To anybody except a member of a committee it would
have been obvious that the Stranger was of the Cinderella
type, and bound to turn out a heroine sooner or later.
But perception goes out of committees. The more
committees you belong to, the less of ordinary life
you will understand. When your daily round becomes
nothing more than a daily round of committees you
might as well be dead.

The Stranger was not pretty; she had a broad, curious
face. Her clothes were much too good to throw
away. You would have enjoyed giving them to a
decayed gentlewoman.

“I stole this bun,” she explained frankly.
“There is an uninterned German baker after me.”

“And why did you steal it?” asked Miss
Ford, pronouncing the H in “why” with
a haughty and terrifying sound of suction.

The Stranger sighed. “Because I couldn’t
afford to buy it.”

“And why could you not afford to buy the bun?”
asked Miss Ford. “A big strong girl like
you.”

You will notice that she had had a good deal of experience
in social work.

The Stranger said: “Up till ten o’clock
this morning I was of the leisured classes like yourselves.
I had a hundred pounds.”

Lady Arabel was one of the kindest people in the world,
but even she quivered at the suggestion of a common
leisure. The sort of clothes the Stranger wore
Lady Arabel would have called “too dretful.”
If one is well dressed one is proud, and may look
an angel in the eye. If one is really shabby
one is even prouder, one often goes out of one’s
way to look angels in the eye. But if one wears
a squirrel fur “set,” and a dyed dress
that originally cost two and a half guineas, one is
damned.